


Cherry Red Automobile

by FromAnonymousToZ



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: A hanging, Alternate Universe - Human, And probably to throw people off his back, Angst, Be careful if you're not straight and you're in a place that doesnt accept your orientation, Homophobia, Human AU, Hurt No Comfort, I know the summary is a little misleading, Its definitly for tax benifits, Its implied the queen of the clouds and the Beast are married but only in law, M/M, Not graphically described, The time frame for this, There is a detailed warning in the notes, Theres no sex in this story, They dont even live together, To the point of hanging, What do you mean you didnt want a sad story, grief looked at from a very distant place, is - Freeform, seriously, very loose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:14:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25402903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FromAnonymousToZ/pseuds/FromAnonymousToZ
Summary: Bartholomew Frost was hung for crimes against nature, namely perverting the act of sex by sleeping with another man, in the winter.
Relationships: The Beast/Enoch (Over the Garden Wall), The Beast/The Queen of the Clouds (Over the Garden Wall), but not really - Relationship
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	Cherry Red Automobile

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: I've done a story about homophobia in the past and coming to terms with internalized homophobia and how it can shape your perception of people you love. 
> 
> HOWEVER, this is different, because the Beast is hanged for people finding a letter containing his feelings to Enoch, it is not a graphic scene, nor is it even really something I look at in the story, this isn't about his hanging, it's about Enoch's grief. 
> 
> But if you think you might be sensitive to this topic for any reason whatsoever, I advise digression.

Bartholomew Frost was hung for crimes against nature, namely perverting the act of sex by sleeping with another man, in the winter. 

They found the evidence in his mailbox, a letter addressed to a stranger out of town, in which Mr. Frost described all manner of depraved acts he intended to do to the stranger the next time they met. The letter’s graphic descriptions of two men kissing were so repugnant that the men would not allow the ladies of the town to gaze upon the letter. It was depraved, truly, how could Mr. Frost bear to tell the stranger he loved them at the end of the letter when he had been describing such perverse acts just a paragraph before.

And maybe that was the way he would have wanted it. He was always a man inclined to the frost and coldness of the winter season. 

To hang until death was too good for him they decided. It was traditional for a family member or companion to cut down the corpse and see to the burial, but no one, not even those who had called themselves friends a week before wanted to cut him down. No one wanted to be affiliated with him even in death, they wouldn't dare dirty their hands with his sin.

He would hang until the rope holding him up rotted, and given that it was winter, it would be a long time until then. 

Maybe that’s how he would have wanted it. His corpse haunting them through the winter, a constant reminder of the life they had taken in fear and hatred.

His body would hang until spring at least. 

Or he would have.

He would have except a shiny red automobile pulls into their sleepy little town. They don't get strangers around these parts, and no one has ever seen this car or the people inside before. 

The car pulls up the afternoon after Bartholomew was hanged and comes to a stop at the bottom of the hill where he hangs. 

The man who gets out of the driver's seat is a big man, with broad shoulders and a height that cut an imposing figure. You could tell from looking at him that he was a man who smiled often, his face was lined with remnants of past smiles. 

He wasn't smiling now. 

His face was a grim thing, his shoulders slumped as if a great weight rested upon him. His brows were furrowed and his mouth a fine line. 

He didn't look like a man you wanted to cross, especially not now. 

He does not move to help his companions out of the car, instead leaning on his door as he gazes up at the old tree and the lifeless body hanging in it. 

The woman who emerged from the passenger seat was small in stature with a faded sundress and a large floppy sun hat despite the chill and cloudiness of the day. Her hand fluttered to her mouth as she gazed up at the man in the tree. 

And the woman who emerged from the back was the loveliest of them all, her blue-silver hair done up elegantly and held up with a golden circlet. A beautiful teal dress spills over her shoulders and billows up like clouds around her legs, a white shawl like bird wings folded over her shoulders. 

The town watches the strangers with curiosity, through shudders and leaves and from behind stacks of boxes, every quiet, ever curious, ever prying. 

The three of them mount the hill silently, the large man occasionally pausing to offer his hand to the ladies on a particularly steep part of the hike. 

When at last they stand before the man in the tree the large man lets out a soft breath of air. 

“Well, Endicott was telling the truth.” He mutters. “It really is him.” His voice is soft, not a thing for outsiders to hear, but hear they do as the town leans in to hear the exchange of the strangers. 

“Oh, Enoch, I’m sorry.” The woman in the teal dress sighs out.

The man shakes his head gently. 

“He was your husband, Sky.” 

“No,” The woman says, placing a hand on his arm. “He was never my husband, Enoch. He was my friend, but never my husband. Regardless of what the law says.” She shakes her head again. “He was your husband before he was anything else, Enoch. He lived for you.” 

“Died for me, too.” The man says, voice devoid of humor.

“No!” The woman in the sunhat finally speaks up. “Do not blame yourself for this, Enoch. He died because someone went through his mail and found a letter that was meant for your eyes only, dear. This is not your fault and I will not have you blame yourself for it.”

The man hums at that briefly and tucks his hands in his pockets. 

“Clara, remind me to send Endicott a thank you for defending him in court.” The man’s voice goes soft and defeated. “Fruitless though it was, there’s just no justice in these parts for us.”

“Of course, dear.” The woman in the sunhat says.

Silence falls over the four of them.

“What are you going to do with his body?” The woman in teal asked. 

The man shrugged, his gaze never leaving the dead man’s face. 

“I suppose I shall bury him in the woods. I think he would have liked that.” 

“Yes.” The woman in teal says. “I think he would have.” 

“I suppose I’ll have to change the will now.” The man says at last. “So that I am buried with him.” 

“I’ll take care of that, dear.” The woman in the sunhat says. 

Silence falls upon them once more.

When the man speaks again, there's a tone of desperation in his voice. 

“Why’d you have to do it, Beast?” The man’s hand cupped the corpse’s face. “You were the one who was always so careful.” 

“Beastie has always had an unhealthy appreciation for the written word. I don't think he could have helped himself.” The woman in teal says as she tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear.

The man sighs at that, a weak smile across his lips as he steps up to the tree. He unties the rope and gently lowers the man, slipping the noose off over his head. 

The man carries the corpse down to his car and places him gently in the back seat. The two women start to get into the car but the man says to them that he will be a minute. 

They nod to him and he begins the trek back up the hill. 

At the top, he leans his back against the tree and fishes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

He stays there a long while, seemingly caught between lighting a cigarette and putting them away. Eventually, he lights one, taking a long drag on the cigarette he gazes out over the town, eyes unreadable.

After the cigarette has burnt out and had been ground to ash under his boot the man shoves his hands in his pockets and goes to join his companions in the car. 

The car drives off with Mr. Frost.

When it comes back the man is alone.

This time the car pulls into Mr. Frost’s driveway and the man steps out twirling a key ring on one hand. 

He walks into Mr. Frost’s house and comes out with a terrarium under one arm, in it Mr. Frost’s pet turtle. Under his other arm, a violin case. 

The man spends the afternoon going in and out of the house, going in with empty cardboard boxes and coming out with filled ones. He loads them gently in his car, a great sadness weighing upon his shoulders.

When he finally locks up the door behind him he spends a long time staring at the door. He presses his forehead against the door and lets out a breath, and the casual onlooker, which there may or may not have been, might have noticed he was crying. 

He drives away. 

A week later the house is for sale. 

The cherry red car never comes back.

**Author's Note:**

> For the record, no, there was nothing explicit in the letter the Beast was going to send to Enoch. 
> 
> It was more or less: I'm going to kiss you silly when you get back. 
> 
> I'm thinking about doing a tumblr thing, I'm still sort of on the edge about the idea, but it could be interesting. I'll probably decide by the time I get around to publishing the next story.


End file.
